


Because You Are Nine

by Deannie



Series: Writ in Remembrance [1]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 17:43:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deannie/pseuds/Deannie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Last year at this time, on this day, he’d been three-quarters of the way through a second bottle of rye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because You Are Nine

**Author's Note:**

> For Stephen, because you are six.

Chris Larabee sat on the small porch in front of his cabin, working on the long, solid piece of wood he’d been whittling all day. The sun started to slide down that last little bit of sky in an explosion of colors that he hadn’t even noticed last year.

Last year at this time, on this day, he’d been three-quarters of the way through a second bottle of rye, while he ignored six men who watched him from various parts of the saloon with looks that varied from commiseration to pity to mild disgust.

They’d been together less than four months at that point, and they were all getting themselves and each other figured out. Chris’d tried to ignore the look of loss on Buck’s face, of course, as he always did, because honestly, it was easier to forget that Buck had lost his family that day just as surely as Chris had. He remembered looking at Vin’s face and wondering at the look of sad understanding—wondering if Vin recognized the pain for what it really was, which was a terrifying thought with their friendship as green as it was. Ezra’s face had been as cool and smooth as glass, but the green of his eyes reflected a knowing that Chris hadn’t been comfortable with—and still wasn’t, really.

Nathan was opinionated enough and JD young enough that their reactions had been less sympathetic. Nathan had clearly been mildly disgusted by the loss of control and the abuse of a few good bottles of alcohol. JD had just seemed disappointed—Chris guessed his dime store novel heroes never found their way into the drink, no matter the “dark and mysterious past” any of them might have had.

Josiah hadn’t tried to understand or sympathize or condemn or excuse; his face had simply held a measure of sadness and pity and a large dose of confusion, because God knew Chris hadn’t told any of them what day it was. He’d scared the shit out of Buck so badly there at the beginning of all this that he was pretty sure Buck hadn’t told anyone either, so they were probably all confused as hell—here was their leader, crawling into the bottle so far he never did know how he got back to his bed that night, or why he sported a black eye for a week. Ezra’s fist was bruised the next day, but Chris had experienced enough days after—and apparently so had Ezra—that he knew not to ask about it and the gambler knew not to tell.

So last year, he’d been the same fucking mess he’d been the two years previous, but he’d had an audience, and that had somehow made it more difficult. This year… this year, something was different. He didn’t know what, exactly—or at least he wouldn’t admit it to himself—but he did know that, just maybe, spending the day trying to get drunk enough to forget it all might not be the answer he’d always thought it was.

He still hadn’t told anyone what day today was, but from the looks he’d gotten last night when he told them he’d be spending the next day out of town, he figured Buck must have. And this year, he figured it was Buck’s right. Adam had been his nephew, if not in blood, then in time and love and care. It was right that he mourn, too. Right that he share it if he had to.

Chris had risen far earlier than he normally did and saddled his horse and headed for his cabin. As he rode quietly past Vin’s wagon, the tracker was just coming out. Those same understanding eyes from last night and last year looked up at him and they nodded at each other.

“You need anything, you know where I am,” Vin offered.

“Thanks,” he replied.

And not long after, Chris was here.

It was nothing so grand as their house had been. Just a rough little cabin, still not quite ready for a cold snap. He had a few months before he’d have to worry too much, and he still wasn’t sure how much time he was planning on spending out here anyway. It wasn’t home.

He didn’t have a home now, and neither did Adam. There was no room to go to, no toys left on a shelf, cared for by a parent instead of played with by a child.

There was something horrible about that, and he normally made sure he was good and drunk on this date so he wouldn’t have to think on it. But this year he’d brought a single bottle of whiskey with him, and he hadn’t cracked it until midafternoon. It had left a lot of time for thinking.

Adam had been born in that house. When Chris let himself—which was never, until Hank came to town and made him realize how little he wanted to forget—he could remember it all so clearly…

They’d been just going to bed. Sarah was so big around he’d joked that he wouldn’t fit beside her on the bed. She’d slapped him hard and then frozen, stock still and almost frightened.

“Another pain?” he’d asked, not too concerned. She’d been feeling them for days, and Mrs. Read would only say that it was like that when the baby was getting ready to come.

A tentative smile had stolen over her face. “I think my water just broke.”

Chris Larabee, who would have sworn up and down that he feared nothing, had been completely terrified. He remembered now how his hands had shaken. And God, but he’d dithered like an old woman. “So, should I get Mrs. Read? Do I—do I need to boil some water or something?”

Sarah had laughed at his fear, the way all women laughed at their husbands. He wanted this little one—more than he’d thought possible when he and Sarah had married more than a year before—but the actual coming of the child was something a man just didn’t want to think on.

And damn sure wanted a midwife to take care of, instead of him.

“You don’t need to boil the water quite yet, Chris,” Sarah had assured him. “But riding over to the Reads’ would be a good idea, yes.” She grimaced in pain for a moment and then relaxed. “Now would be good, I think—but for God’s sake, don’t scare them!” she added, as he leaped from the bed to pull on his pants and grab his shirt. “The baby isn’t going to come while you’re gone.”

He’d ridden harder than he’d ever ridden before—just in case she was wrong...

The wood before him revealed wheels and chassis as he remembered the long night and longer morning after that mad dash. Sarah was right, of course. Adam took his own sweet time.

“When is it going to come?” It was probably the fifth time he’d asked Mrs. Farlee, who’d come to the house first thing in the morning to assist Mrs. Read. For probably the fifth time, Mrs. Farlee had tutted him. “Babies come when they come, my dear.” She looked back at the house, where Sarah lay laboring. “Sarah’s doing beautifully. Shouldn’t be long now.”

Chris had retreated to the barn. He’d already lavished unusual care on every horse they had—even went so far as to feed the damn cats that had found their way there—before Buck had arrived at midmorning to wait with him.

He couldn’t leave, but he couldn’t sit on the porch and listen to Sarah moan every couple of minutes, either. Couldn’t hear the calls of  “Rest a moment. I’ve to see to the wee one’s position.” “Push, Sarah, love. There’s a girl!”

God, he’d been a mess that day! He grinned to himself, tears falling on the hoof of the horse he whittled, and remembered how much every cry of hers had hurt him. She told him later he was being foolish, but Chris had been remembering his own mother, dying just hours after his baby sister was born. Violet hadn’t lived much longer than her mama, and Chris knew he’d be destroyed if that happened to him.

He worked to control the shaking of his hands as he worked on the horse’s pine withers. Wouldn’t do to ruin another good piece of carving.

“Chris,” Buck had murmured, a touch of understanding mixed with the humor in his voice. “You’re going to whittle that damn thing into nothing before the baby even gets to play with it.”

Chris had looked down at the piece of wood in his hand and grinned. He’d been making a miniature wagon for the baby, but the damn thing was ruined now, just like Buck said—whittled to nothing.

“She’ll be fine,” Buck had whispered. “They both will.”

Chris remembered grunting. He’d never realized until that day that it was possible to be at once so excited that your heart might burst out of your chest and so terrified that it might stop completely.

Of course Buck had been right—at least about that.

“You owe me a dollar, Buck,” he’d told him, beaming from ear to ear as he’d held the little boy carefully. God, his hands were too big. He was too clumsy.

He was a daddy…

Buck had been so sure it was going to be a girl. But he had looked at the perfect little man in his best friend’s arms and happily dropped his coins on the table. “He’s perfect,” he’d said, clearly meaning it. He looked over at Sarah, who had been cleaned up before he and Chris had been let in, and now sat comfortably in the bed. “He really is, Sarah, honey. Gilly said you were amazing.”

Chris had laughed at that, tears of joy still coursing down his face. Of course Buck would chat up the widow Farlee while Sarah was birthing. Why not?

Buck never changed, Chris thought, thanking God for the fact. He finished another horse’s head and moved on to the rigging. The man had been pursuing the widow McCormac for weeks now, with little success. Perhaps it was because he’d spent that same time pursuing Inez.

He doubted Buck would ever settle down. Doubted he’d ever have a child. But Chris knew that, no matter what, he’d be there for his friend, just like Buck had been there for him.

“What’s his name?” Buck had asked, eyes back on the center of attention.

Sarah’s eyes had met Chris’s, giving him permission to name the child. They’d talked about possibilities beforehand, of course, but in the end had decided to let the moment dictate the name. Her choice for a girl, his for a boy.

Chris had looked again at the small wisps of blond hair, the muddy blue eyes, so very huge in that tiny face, the nose that was so perfectly a Larabee nose…

And Sarah’s lips…

“Adam,” he’d whispered, grinning wide as Sarah’s eyes had filled with tears. “After Sarah’s grampa.”

“Right fine name, Chris,” Buck had whispered back, reaching out to touch Adam lightly on his cheek. “Right fine name.”

 

Chris stood from his chair on the porch as darkness finally made it impossible to see. He had the carving in one hand and the knife still in the other—no hand to bring in his whiskey, but he found himself not much minding. He placed the pine stagecoach on the table in front of him, wincing at its rough lines, but proud of it, nonetheless. At least this one wouldn’t have to be remade.

He’d whittled that ruined wagon all over again in the weeks after Adam’s birth, when the boy’s colic sent him to the porch or the barn to hide from the screaming. On Adam’s first birthday, Chris’d changed subjects and whittled a small horse Adam later took to calling Jet. It was followed in successive years by a cat just like the largest cat in the barn, a little house, a jail (for the bad guys four-year-old Adam assured his dad he’d “get good!”), and a little man with spurs and pistols that Adam had dubbed “Sheriff Daddy.”

None of Adam’s toys had survived the fire—it had been as greedy for the wood as it was for everything else. Chris wondered, walking back to retrieve his whiskey bottle, what else he might have added to Adam’s birthday town. Maybe a church or a saloon. He grinned to himself. A broken-down old wagon, maybe, or a livery with a healer on the second floor…

He poured a glass of whiskey and sat in front of the stagecoach. He had no idea why he’d made the damn thing, but it had somehow kept the blackness of loss away as the day of Adam’s birth passed once again, uncelebrated—had kept it from consuming him a damn sight better than the rotgut had the three years previous.

He could give it to Billy Travis, he supposed. Or Benny Potter. Someone should enjoy it. Instead, he put it high on a shelf by the stove.

Because it was for Adam, because he was nine.

And for Sheriff Daddy, because he _was_ still a daddy, damn it, and there should be a toy on the shelf.

* * *   
The End


End file.
